


i’ll leave you words

by tnevmucric



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Life Is Strange, M/M, POV First Person, Time Travel, set before engine room, unbetad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 18:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: i call him when they leave. the guilt doesn’t surpass the need, the guilt doesn’t even come close.





	i’ll leave you words

I call him when they leave. The guilt doesn’t surpass the need, the guilt doesn’t even come close.

“I figured”, is all he says. It’s casual and bland, so unlike his usual formality that I have to dig my hand into the counter, remind myself why, who, how much time is left in this line.

“Come over.” Outside of myself, I can hear the begging and briefly pity. He doesn’t know, but if he was smart enough he would. He’s smart enough so he does.

“Oracle isn’t listening?”, his tongue clicks, not teasing or speculative, just quiet. Attentive. I almost ask: _and Shido isn’t? When last did you have an inch of privacy?_

“I told her to stop”, did she, though? That would be strange in of itself—randomly asking for surveillance to be taken off. Is she suspicious? Does she suspect? “I trust her.” _Do I?_

“Do you?”

Ah.

“No”, I admit. 

“So I should come over now before the cavalry realises you’ve jumped ship.”

“That’s not what this is-“

“Then what is it?”

He snaps at me. He’s angry with me. I rub my eyes roughly and feel my elbows ache against Leblanc’s counter.

“Akechi, please. It matters.”

I could have said anything else, I know. I could have said _there are lives on the line _(he’d have scoffed and hung up) I could have said _your life is on the line_ (he’d have taken the threat and run with it) I could have said _please, for me_ (and I’m too afraid to see if that would have worked).

“You trust me”, I hear the shift of his clothes, the consideration and coldness of his tone. “You trust me not to shoot you where you stand? Ring the bell, kill you, flip the sign and be on my way?”

“I trust you.”

It’s silent long enough for me to check if he’s hung up. 

He hasn’t.

“I’ll be there.”

He has.

I make coffee to waste my time, keep my hands busy, and persuade him with. _I made you coffee. Would you like a cup of coffee? There’s still some left in the pot if you want some. I want you to sit down and pay attention long enough for you to finish that _one_ cup._

When he does arrive, I feel like we’re two different people meeting for the first time. He, now a man of cynicism and tire, with eyes half-lidded as if he’s on the verge of both snapping and falling asleep. He’s worn a different coat, one that hides his frame, and I know I’m in tentative waters.

“The usual”, he suggests as he sits down, and my plan teeters itself off track. “If you’ve already made it.” It flings itself off course completely.

I follow him instead, do as I’m told, stay complacent and familiar. Was the silence, so familiar, what he preferred? Or did he want Joker: loud and rivalrous.

I could rewind, figure it out. See if I can fluster him first, pour the coffee and leave it where he sits before he even walks in—I don’t want to. He holds the ceramic lightly and I can hear the strain of his gloves (the cups here always had small handles, anyway). I’m not sure where to stand or how to stand, if I should sit beside him or lean across—he answers for me, pins me in place with a new kind of stare (new to me, new born for him). I can’t move, can’t breathe, and he doesn’t drink his coffee just yet.

“You're strange.”

“I'm strange?”

I don’t mean to be so hasty, so uncharacteristic by his standards of me, but I suppose if tonight is our last honest night (not our last chance, _never_ our last chance) then I can give him this. _Give him me._

“Yes”, he squints, notices. “I always meant to... sometimes it's as if you know exactly what I'm going to say and when I'm going to say it. You’re like that with others, too, though perhaps your skill of swapping masks doesn’t just apply to the Metaverse only.”

“Some would find it endearing”, I flounder.

“I find it suspicious.”

I consider going back, not letting him take control of the conversation and steering it away. I don’t. I babble instead and let my mouth run because _I don’t know what to say_, I’ve _never_ known. Each time a word is said, a question asked, I need a day and a half of consideration—two weeks of _this_, _maybe _or _not at all_.

“You’re the only one who's approached me so seriously about it”, that’s honest. “It's just empathy, I think. I was an emotional kid. And everyone has masks”, I add. _You should know._

He agrees, or at least hums his consideration into another sip of coffee, foot tapping mid-air as his legs remain crossed over one another.

"Well?", he asks eventually. “What did you want to speak about?”

And what is there but the truth?

"I feel like I keep going back in time." Leblanc feels colder today, older and re-worn too many times. It reminds me of the carpet in my room back home, with the threads coming undone and the loose nails toward the edge—_don't trip_, I could tell the younger me. _You'll cut yourself_. "I’d... wish, I could stay in moments forever—I'd replay a moment for what felt like days just to keep feeling what I felt."

"What moments?" His voice doesn’t betray any notion of what _he’s_ really feeling, and I know I won’t be able to speak if I stare at him head on again. The grain of the wood, my hands, his hands, the grain of the wood—_keep your fists clenched. _

“Every moment”, I confess. "The first time you called me by my name, the afternoon you joined the team—all of it. Right up until they stopped being moments."

"What do you mean?

I wince, I’m not making sense. He can’t understand it the way I do, won’t understand unless I change my perspective. "You've gotta trust me", I try, and I can feel the bite of my teeth through to my eye sockets when I look at him. "Promise me you'll listen to what I have to say."

He is relentless brutality, open skepticism that will not hesitate to cut me down. His chin taunts me, tilts back and wants to force a sneer—he doesn’t. And he doesn’t blink. I take the chance (is it a chance? What are the odds? Red or black or gold? It was on a complete whim that we made it out of Niijima-san’s palace alive). I take the chance and touch his hand, watching his eyesight flock there immediately—two territorial crows, not nearly a murder but close. He loosens, peels away from the cup, and I press my thumb against his middle finger. I hold his hand. I take off his glove.

His fingernails seem to be cut too short and are faintly yellow at the edges—_“dark nail polish”_, he murmurs. His cuticles are trimmed save the rawness of his thumb; does he bite it? Is it a nervous tick? Do his gloves fit too tightly to his skin?

His palm looks claustrophobic compared to the top of his hand (which has its own fair share of discolouration and sun spots—_ “I’d lay in the sun all day”_, he explains,_ “back when I had the time.”_) The print of his skin is overwhelmed with swirls and arches, lines so deeply grooved that they could have just as easily been the circuitry of his muscles. I touch each one, and lose count easily. His hands, his nails, each joint is completely unlike his face or neck; his wrists I’d seen, once or twice under the guise of his slipping sleeves. Asking about them would be rude.

“Are you done?”, he asks me, a touch humoured, more empty. I play with his fingers, watch the easy bend of each knuckle accomodating for the pressure. No, I’m not done. I’d keep us like this, with your thin crescent nails (the whites so nearly like thin wading moons), the tired slope of your neck, the weariness of your fingers as I tangle them with mine—I’d keep you here and not regret it. I’d kiss you here and ask you for _more, please._

Outside, the sun laughs brightly. It warms Leblanc’s old structure and keeps me guessing. I bring his hand to my face, hold the tips of his fingers to my lips, and I don’t kiss. I don’t whisper _please, more_. I drag him upwards, downwards, show him the crease of my frown and the wobble in my cheek: _I need you to know._ I need you to know each part of me now.

This is what will save you.

He pulls away, not unkindly but enough to let me know that our time is up. If I’ve done enough, tomorrow will be different. If I’ve done enough, he’ll stay.

“Goro-“, his hands, gloved and ungloved, both slide across my neck and behind my ears, twist me in such a way—pull me in such a way that I stutter to keep up as he kisses me. His tongue is warm and bitter with coffee and the one sugar I know he never asks for but needs. He kisses me and my hips dig harshly into the counter. I feel my brain falter and clutter my skull, filling it with unnecessary thought and unease. He kisses me and I kiss into him, fall into him, let him wrap me in his arms and breathe—he takes me, he gets me, he takes me, he _understands_ me. The counter is still in the way.

I wonder later if this is teenagers being what teenagers do, but I have to cast away the thought. This is about his life, his death, and my selfish itch: all consuming and all sacrificing toward my ego. I rub my nose against his collar... his thighs are lean, muscled from years of cycling. If he dies tomorrow, then let me die here. I don’t want to see the door close again.

He smells nice, sweet, like some citrus I can’t place.

“You never did say....”, his voice clatters by my ear—I can feel the vibration in his chest. “Why am I here, Akira? Why did you want this?”

_Why did I want this?..._

“Needed you to know”, I croak out. Nothing else will come out. I’m scared I’ll rewind too far and mess things up. _Needed you to know..._ _needed you to know_ what? You’re going to die, so _don’t die!_ Walk over the line, cross the threshold and _trust_ me. Put your life in my hands and I will carry it, I promise. Promise me you’ll believe me. Just _believe_ me, _trust_ me, and this can be okay.

My throat feels raw, stinging, and I don’t know if it’s because of crying or going the second round. I needed you to know, in case you decided to kill yourself anyway.

“Okay”, he says quietly, smoothing his hand over my face. “Okay.”

I spend the night paralysed, and coated in warmth.

He doesn’t show up the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading! pls consider donating to my kofi below :)
> 
> ko-fi.com/tnevmucric


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